Batman vs Predator: The Next Generation
by ordinaryguy2
Summary: Another story by Carycomic! Come and read. Just don't forget to review!
1. Chapter 1

**Batman vs. Predator: The Next Generation**

by Carycomic

A "Batman/Predator/Star Trek:TNG" crossover.

**Characters and Concepts:** _if you recognize them, I don't own or profit from them._

**Note: **_the futuristic portions occur one year before STAR TREK: NEMESIS._

**TOP OF THE MARK,**

**MARK HOPKINS HOTEL,**

**SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA**

**(DECEMBER 18, 2378)**

"Captain! Over here."

Commander William Riker stood up from where he had been seated to wave his right arm in the air. Prompting Jean-Luc Picard to do likewise in smiling response. A minute later, both Starfleet officers were shaking hands and grinning like Cheshire cats.

"Thank you for joining me on such short notice, sir. Please, have a seat."

"Gladly. But, what was so urgent you had to call me all the way down from Drydock?"

Will delayed answering until he was eye-to-eye with his former commanding officer in their respective chairs.

"I'm going to ask Deanna to marry me. And, if she says '_yes_,' I want you to be my best man."

Picard, for all his well-documented skill at oratory, was literally speechless for a whole minute. Then, his grin returned, seemingly twice as wide as before. And he began to laugh with shamelessly loud joy as he pounded Riker on both shoulders.

"You young pup! It's about time!"

Riker's grin returned, as well (even as he massaged his aching shoulders).

"Then, I can take that as a '_yes_,' on your part?"

"Absolutely. I'd be honored! When are you going to pop the question?"

"When she gets back from visiting her sister's grave on Betazed. It's still somewhat awkward for her, learning she wasn't an only child, after all the years Lxwana kept it a secret. So, I figure this will cheer her up."

Picard nodded: "If it doesn't, I don't know what would. Assuming she says '_yes_,' what date do you wish to set it for?"

"One year from now. About the same time Enterprise-E comes out of Drydock."

"And, just before your departure to take command of the U. S. S. Titan," Picard noted: "Sound tactical thinking."

Riker beamed with gratitude: "Then let's order some champagne and drink a toast!"

When the waiter brought over a bottle of champagne (bucket of ice and all), Picard personally smelled the cork before filling the two long-stemmed glasses.

"What shall we toast to first?" he asked his former first officer.

"How about 'old friends?'" the waiter suggested. . .in a strangely familiar voice.

Both men looked up, and became drop-jawed with astonishment when they recognized who was serving them.

"Wesley?!" they chorused in unison.

**GOTHAM CITY, USA.**

**(TURN OF THE MILLENIUM)**

It had started three week earlier, with a letter-to-the-editor of THE GOTHAM GAZETTE.

That letter had complained about all the organized crime in Gotham. Crime "_allegedly_" controlled by one Rupert Thorne. And, which the local police were ineffective in dealing with as half of them were controlled by Thorne, as well!

That letter had been signed: "Mad As A Hatter (And Not Going To Take It Anymore)."

Exactly one week later, in the middle of the night, a certain millinery store burned to the ground. In combing through the ruins, afterwards, the GCFD arson squad found a secret sub-basement. One that ultimately turned out to be used, during the day, as a sweat shop. . .

. . .manned by illegal immigrants.

The fact that the millinery store had been owned by one of Thorne's holding companies quickly made front page headlines. As did a similar arson fire, the following week. Only, this time, the targeted business had been an ice cream parlor. One that was ultimately revealed to have been putting real cocaine in their ice cream colas!

And, which (like the millinery store) had been secretly owned by Thorne.

The very next day, THE GOTHAM GAZETTE received another letter from "Mad As A Hatter." This one, not only claiming responsibility for both fires. But, also, threatening a more pro-active strike against another of Thorne's operations. Although, that target was naturally not specified. And, after the signature, there was a postscript which admonished Thorne to. . .

"Beware of the Mean Berets."

Alfred Pennyworth, reading that headline the next morning, could only "_harrumph_" in mild derision.

"Could there be any worse way to slander the good name of the U. S. Army Special Forces than to form a vigilante militia with a punning allusion to the former's own nickname?"

Bruce Wayne did not even try to pretend to half-smile.

"It's worse than that, Alfred. The millinery store and the ice cream parlor were two of Thorne's most profitable fronts. And the bulk of their dirty money was laundered through his nightclub-casino. If this Mad Hatter sticks to his weekly pattern, then it's the Paradise Casino that will be hit next!"

"Is there any way to ascertain that for sure, sir?"

Bruce Wayne nodded: "Robin and I will have to take turns staking it out."

Meanwhile, back in the twenty-fourth century, the two Starfleet veterans had finally gotten over their profound astonishment at seeing their former shipmate, Wesley Crusher, apparently working as a waiter

"Good Lord!" Picard was the first to exclaim: "The last time we saw or heard of you, you had become the Traveler's apprentice on Dorvan IV. So, what in blazes are you doing here?!"

"It's good to see you, again, Captain," Wesley replied: "You, too, Commander. And, congratulations, as well! But, I'm afraid this isn't a social reunion. The Traveler and I need your help. What for. . .can't be explained here."

Whereupon, Wesley put the bucket of champagne on the table. An act which seemingly initiated a bright flash of golden light that momentarily dazzled Riker and Picard. When the two men finally regained control of their vision, the first thing they noticed is that they were no longer within the Top of the Mark. Rather, they were sitting upon passenger seats in what appeared to be a Federation runabout!

"Wesley!" demanded Riker: "What's going on here? Where are we?"

"Calm yourself, Commander," replied a deep (and shockingly familiar) voice from the pilot's seat: "You are aboard the U. S. S. Housatonic. A runabout that was recently flown to the homeworld of the Guardian of Forever. . .after first being stolen by our mutual acquaintance, Sela of Romulus."

It was not the enigmatic Traveler who had uttered that reply. If for no other reason than he was sitting in the co-pilot's seat! Rather, it was someone who was as well-known to most school children of the Federation as their own names. The one piloting the runabout was none other than. . .

Ambassador Spock of Vulcan.

** tbc**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2.**

**Note:** _the present-day portions of this story occur after the WB film BATMAN AND ROBIN (1997)._

* * * * *

Once again, the two Starfleet veterans were dumbfounded. Not only because of the identity of their pilot. But, also because of the name he had just uttered.

When they had first encountered that mysterious woman, face-to-face, she had claimed to be the half-Romulan daughter of former Enterprise-D security officer Lt. Tasha Yar. Although, not the one who had been senselessly killed, on planet Vagra II, by a malevolent liquid entity known as Armus. But, rather, an alternate Tasha Yar from a divergent time line!

One in which the United Federation of Planets and the Klingon Empire had finally gone to war with each other, without any Organian interference.

That Tasha Yar had supposedly gone back twenty years, into the past, while serving as acting first officer aboard a temporally displaced Enterprise-C. Consequently, she became both one of the few survivors of the historically crucial Battle of Narendra III. . .and the very reluctant wife of her chief Romulan captor. A man who would raise their mixed-blood daughter to hate the Federation with a passion unmatched by any full-blooded Romulan!

Riker looked at the Traveler. "What's she up to this time?"

The Traveler half-smiled.

"A most apt way of phrasing your question. You see, the Romulan Senate did not look too kindly on the failure of Sela's plan to invade Vulcan. So, as punishment, she was demoted to chief of security. . .for the Romulan embassy on Nimbus III."

Riker whistled in shock.

"Talk about a fate worse than death!"

The Traveler nodded: "That is precisely how she sees it. She is obsessed with avenging her disgrace! Towards that end, she made an alliance, at the height of the Dominion War, with the Cardassian who calls himself. . .Gul Dukat."

"What kind of alliance?" Picard whispered, with a slight edge in his voice.

"Through the Obsidian Order, Dukat obtained- -and gave to Sela- -the same Ferengi mind-control device that was once used on you, Captain. Using it to amplify the Vulcan mind-melding techniques she was personally taught by Subcommander Selok of the Tal Shiar (formerly known as Ambassador T'pel of Vulcan), she has gained control of a Delta Quadrant life form known as a '_Yautja_,' whose people come from a very old hunter/warrior culture. And, with him, Sela has gone back to twenty-first century Earth via the Guardian of Forever!"

"But, for what purpose?" Picard replied.

"To erase the very existence of one of the two men she holds responsible for her disgrace. She will use the Yautja to kill Ambassador Spock's earliest known ancestor on his mother's side. One Richard Grayson of Gotham City."

* * * * *

**WAYNE MANOR (14 MILES FROM GOTHAM CITY)  
**  
Dick Grayson looked at his mentor, as he finished suiting up.

"What makes you think there's more to this Mad Hatter business than meets the eye?"

"Because," replied Batman (seated before the console of the Batcave's mainframe): ". . .the timing of it is a little too convenient for my peace of mind. Let's look at the facts! Fact One: half of the illegal immigrants working as wage-slaves, in that sweat shop, are refugees from Southwest Asia. More specifically; the former North India Principality of Jammu and Kashmir. Fact Two: over the last six months, that region has seen a lot of turmoil instigated by this man."

The Dark Knight pressed a button. Bringing up on the monitor a photograph of a regal-looking foreigner wearing a golden turban.

"Khan Noonein Singh; a militant Sikh separatist leader who's been inspired by all the recent turmoil, in the Near East, to declare his own _'holy war of liberation_.' And, Fact Three: like certain other Asian countries, the Principality was split in half following World War Two. With the eastern half, Kashmir, remaining Indian; while the western half, Jammu, went to Islamic Pakistan."

That last fact was emphasized by the flags of those respective countries appearing over the names of the areas indicated on the computer-generated map.

"Don't tell me," said Robin (now standing by the Dark Knight's side): "Let me deduce. He. . . '_Sikhs_' to reunify the country under his totally autonomous leadership."

Batman could not help wincing: "Bad pun; good deduction. Towards that end, I believe that he's been smuggling heroin from Xinjiang Province, China, to Gotham City. Trading it to someone here for the arms and ammunition so vital to his little war."

As emphasis, a computer-generated red arrow now stretched between the two geopolitical points.

Robin crossed his arms. "I suppose it's too much to hope that that someone is Rupert Thorne."

"Your supposition is, unfortunately, correct. However, three weeks ago (just before we '_happened_' to get side-tracked by this Mad Hatter business), I was at least able to uncover the identity of the arms dealer's middleman."

Another computer button was pressed. Changing the map to the photograph of a one-eyed man (wearing a white patch over his right eye) dressed like a desert-dwelling nomad of the Near East.

"An ex-CIA mercenary," continued Batman: ". . .who did a lot of gun-running to the Muhajideen during the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. I'm still trying to determine his real name. Yet, I do know that he's long since become internationally infamous, as a hitman, under his Cold War-era code name. Deathstroke!"

Robin paused to ponder all this information.

"So, let me get this straight. You think this Khan Noonein Singh is using Indian women, posing as refugees, to mule China-white in order to barter it for badly-needed arms and ammo."

Batman grinned: "Bingo!"

"Well, even if all that's true, where does a vigilante war against Thorne fit in?"

"It serves the dual purpose of crippling his monopoly on the local narcotics trade, while simultaneously distracting him from investigation- -and elimination- -of the new competition."

"And, you're reason for thinking that the Mad Hatter will hit Thorne's place, tonight?" persisted Robin.

The Dark Knight's grin became even wider.

"You mean, aside from the weekly punctuality he's shown, so far? Because, tonight is Friday night, the weekend before the Fourth of July (which, this year, falls on a Wednesday). That means a large influx of tourists from out of town. Some of them, wealthy and thrill-seeking enough that they'll take a chance at Thorne's gaming tables! Therefore, if I were the Mad Hatter, I'd pick tonight to brazenly rob it. Preferably, with a large, well-armed crew at my back."

"In that case," replied the Teen Wonder: ". . .should I call Batgirl, as an added precaution?"

Batman shook his head: "She wouldn't be able to make it on time. She's in Metropolis, observing the tenth anniversary of her parents' accident."

In that much, the Dark Knight was truly not hypothesizing.

Barbara Wilson's mother had been born Margaret Clarke. And, she had been Alfred Pennyworth's younger 'sister" only in the sense that he had been her Big Brother (as in, Big Brothers and Sisters of America). At which time, Alfred been a drama student enrolled at Metropolis University. And, on one of his mentoring visits to the residence of the Widow Clarke, he had happened to be accompanied by his dormitory room mate.

Both the latter and Margaret had been instantly smitten with each other. And the relationship they had started that day culminated (to nobody's surprise; least of all, Alfred's) in marriage, ten years later. It was, therefore, doubly heart-breaking when _both_ of nine year-old Barbara's parents had died in a car crash!

Barbara now approached the twin headstones, flowers in hand. She placed half of the bouquet (melanistic "Dr. Midnite" orchids) in front of her father's grave marker. Then, she turned to place the rest of the flowers (pearl-white marguerite daisies) in front of her mother's. Only to stop dead in her tracks and gasp. For someone had left an identical bundle of daisies, there, already!

And, after her maternal grandmother's passing, there had been only one other person besides Barbara who knew her mother's birth flower. She turned to look at the headstone that read:

"SLADE WILSON

Beloved Husband

Beloved Father"

"1/1/46-3/27/91"

**tbc**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3.**

**SOMEWHERE IN THE PENTAGON**

**(THREE YEARS EARLIER)**

"You have an impressive record, Colonel," said Amanda Waller (looking over a beige dossier): "But, I want to hear- - from your own lips- -why you think you're the best one to take over as field leader of this project."

Colonel Slade Wilson (U. S. Army Special Forces) stood at parade rest as he began his reply.

"There is no denying that Dr. Keyes was a brilliant man. . .in the laboratory. But, with all due respect, ma'am? He had zero military experience in the field! Whereas I have lived off the land (behind enemy lines), more-than-enough times to realize that a true hunter always tailors his methodology to the nature of the individual prey he is hunting. Because, what succeeds on one occasion might not work a second time in a row. Not even with a different specimen of the same prey!"

"If Dr. Keyes had had that kind of field experience under his belt, it might have occurred to him that these extra-terrestrial hunters might very well have hunted _other_ extra-terrestrials in between visits to Earth. And on planets with lighting conditions radically different from those _on_ Earth! Up to, and including, frequencies higher than ultra-violet and lower than infra-red."

"By contrast, Lt. Harrigan of the LAPD instinctively realized this because he, himself, is a highly trained- -and experienced- -hunter of men. Thereby allowing him to succeed at taking this creature down."

Waller smiled. . .like a Cheshire cat with rabies.

"Nice speech, Colonel. But, can you honestly _guarantee_ that you can do better at bagging one of these things, alive?"

"No, ma'am, I can't. And no one else in their right mind honestly could, either! Because, real life is more fluid than any battle plan; no matter how well formulated. The best I can legitimately promise you is that I can learn from the good doctor's mistakes. . .and engineer a situation that will prove irresistible to the next Predator that visits Earth."

Thanking him for his frankness, Waller sent Wilson back to the anteroom. Five minutes later, she sent Lieutenant Garber to relay her decision. Which the latter did. . .with a preliminary salute.

"Welcome to the project, sir. Allow me to show you around!"

**THE PARADISE CASINO,**

**GOTHAM CITY, N. J.**

**(JUNE 29, 2001) **

The maître d'hôtel, inspected the five men who walked up to the dining room's velvet rope, next. They were all dressed the exact same way: black suits (with matching shoes and ties), off-set by white shirts. The youngest of the group appeared to be in his very early twenties. While the second oldest of them (the bald one) appeared to be the one in charge.

"May I help you?"

The bald man nodded: "Dixon Hill; party of five. We have a reservation."

"Ah, yes! Right this way."

The quintet was subsequently led to a table near the band stand.

"Here are your menus! Your waiter will be with you, shortly."

"Thank you."

As soon as the maître d'hôtel was out of earshot, Riker leaned forward.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, sir? Masquerading as Federal agents, I mean?"

Picard nodded: "The UFO sightings of this time period are filled with urban legends, about non-descript men in black, investigating eyewitnesses the very next day. It will preserve the Prime Directive for us to appear to be those kind of men."

"But, a gambling casino?!" Riker persisted.

"This is where that Englishman I spoke to on the telephone said they'd be coming," Wesley now interjected: "Some kind of fund-raiser for something called the Tompkins Free Clinic."

He was, of course, referring to Richard Grayson and his legal guardian, Bruce Wayne. A billionaire philanthropist who had somehow persuaded an otherwise fully booked stage magician, stage-named Zatanna, to do a one-night stand for charity.

The tickets had sold out within an hour of the news being made public.

As for the time-traveling quintet? Their runabout had landed twenty-four hours earlier. And, when Riker had asked precisely _where_ they had landed, the Traveler had smilingly replied:

"In a small clearing near the foot of Ghost Mountain. The geographic eponym for a local Native American reservation. Some of whose present-day inhabitants will have descendants on Dorvan IV! Not to worry, though. No one will stumble across it before we are finished, here. And, from here, Wesley and I can teleport us all to Downtown Gotham City."

"Are we not dressed rather. . .conspicuously, for that?" Spock had asked.

And, Picard had been unable to resist chuckling as he replied that he had a remedy for that.

"But, it will require you establishing a mind-meld between the Traveler and myself," he had added.

Spock had nodded. And, moments later, the Traveler mentally saw what the good captain had in mind. While, conversely, Picard saw why the enigmatic being from Tau Ceti had needed his and Riker's help for this dire mission. Riker would be serving as their chief of security. While Picard's broad archeological knowledge of this time period would help the five of them blend in better. Combine this with Spock's knowledge of his mother's genealogy, and they might be able to accomplish this mission with nobody at the Starfleet Department of Temporal Investigations any the wiser!

By ten o'clock of that Friday morning, the quintet had entered the lobby of the Gotham Ritz-Carlton Hotel, where they promptly rented a suite of adjoining rooms on the next-to-top floor. This had not been their first stop, however. That dubious honor went to a certain pawn shop, where Picard and Riker had been forced to trade their golden comm-badges for some much-needed cash!

"Not to worry," the Traveler had reiterated: "Wesley and I have our own unique mind-meld. So, we shall all be able to keep in touch, just as effectively, as long as one of us is accompanying either of you."

Once they were comfortably settled in, it was Wesley who had made the phone call to Wayne Manor. Pretending (under Spock and Picard's coaching) to be a reporter for a certain magazine they both knew to be very popular among teenagers of this time period. And, thereby, pretending to want a face-to-face interview with young Richard Grayson.

The question as to where the latter would be, later that day, had been deftly answered by a man calling himself "Alfred." Yet, at the same time, something in his phrasing made Wesley suspect Alfred had also been rather evasive.

"He refused to tell me precisely _when_ they'd be arriving at that casino, as Bruce Wayne is apparently famous for _always_ being fashionably late!"

To which Spock had (quite logically) replied: "Then, we shall have to arrive ahead of them, and muster the requisite patience to wait."

Their patience would be rewarded in ways they could never have anticipated.

* * * * *

Suddenly, the lights in the dining room went dim, at the same as a stage-in-the-round began to rise from the dance floor.

"Ladies and gentlemen," intoned the master of ceremonies over the P.A. system: "Preeeeeeeeeeeesenting; fresh from Las Vegas, Nevada. That Crown Princess of Prestidigitation. . .ZATANNA!"

Everyone began to clap, accordingly. Several even "ooh-ed" and "ah-ed" as there came a small explosion of white smoke! Followed by the apparent materialization, out of thin air, of a lovely young woman wearing fishnet stockings; a black tuxedo jacket with tails; and a top hat that she doffed as she melodramatically bowed. Revealing long, black hair that complemented her lovely blue eyes.

"Greetings, Gothamites!" she exclaimed: "As you already know, tonight's performance is dedicated to the continued operation of the Tompkins Free Medical Clinic. So, before we do anything else, why don't you get out your wallets while I pass the hat? POT TAH! TAOLF MORF ELBAT OT ELBAT."

Whereupon, her seemingly enchanted chapeau began to levitate in a counter-clockwise circle!

"Fascinating," whispered Mr. Spock, with an arched eyebrow.

That sentiment was shared not only by the other four men at the table. But, also everyone else in the room, as they put up to a hundred dollars per person into the seemingly bottomless hat! This, in turn, prompted a uniformed security guard named "Ian Mueller" (who was watching the show via a closed-circuit TV monitor) to smile. He then lifted his left arm, and spoke into what most people thought was merely a wristwatch.

"Falseface to Mad Hatter. Falseface to Mad Hatter. Now's the time! Over."

"Mad Hatter to Falseface. Roger that. We are beginning infiltration. . .now!"

At which point, two figures in black began descending on ropes, mountaineer-style, to a certain office window on the third floor of the nightclub  
casino.

"Deadshot to Mad Hatter," one of them began to recite: "Deadshot to Mad Hatter. We are in position! Over."

"Acknowledged, Deadshot. Proceed with Phase 2."

Whereupon, the two figures in black pushed off, from the side of the building, and swung outward at a ninety-degree angle. At the arc of that swing, one of them withdrew an Uzi submachine gun with built-on silencer. . ..and started firing subsonic armor-piercing bullets at the bulletproof window of Rupert Thorne's office!

It was, therefore, the ensuing crash of breaking glass that the Caped Crusaders (staked out on the roof of a neighboring office building) picked up over their parabolic microphones.

"Looks like it's time for action, Robin."

The Teen Wonder merely grinned.

** tbc**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4.  
**

**PARADISE CASINO,  
GOTHAM CITY,  
(JUNE 27, 2001)  
**  
To say that Ruper Thorne was startled by the two ninja-like figures, who came crashing into his office, would have been a masterpiece of understatement. It was only when one of them (addressed as "Firebug") was instructed to head for the vault that he finally snapped out of it. Drawing a snub-nose semi-automatic pistol from his desk's center drawer in the process.

"Get away from there, you f. . .!"

His expletive was interrupted by a Superball bouncing off the left side of his forehead. Resulting in his staggering against the wall behind him and sliding slowly to the floor!

"Thanks, Deadshot!"

"Thank me by blowing that sucker open."

Firebug nodded. Whereupon, he knelt and removed a knapsack from his back. He then removed four saucer-shaped limpet mines. One for each corner of a certain wooden panel on the wall. He and Deadshot then crouched down behind Thorne's desk. Each of them flanking the rather paunchy crime kingpin. When Firebug pointed a small remote control behind him,. . .

. . .all four mines exploded, simultaneously. The thermite charge within each burning through the wooden panel, as well as the titanium steel door behind it!

The vault door fell to the floor with a "bang" that the Persian carpeting only partially muffled. But, neither Deadshot nor Firebug paid any attention to it. They merely jumped over the metallic slab and into the enclosed room beyond. Filling the large burlap bag (withdrawn from Deadshot's knapsack) with as much of the on-hand dirty money as it could hold. At the same time, in the security control room, "Ian Mueller" radioed his real employer one final time.

"Falseface to Mad Hatter. Activating fire alarm. Meet you on the roof. Over and out!"

Consequently, a string of klaxons began blaring throughout the building. Most especially, in the casino's main showroom. So, naturally, the waiters and other staff members began escorting the now-frightened customers towards the nearest emergency exits. That is; all but five of them.

Picard, Riker, Wesley, Spock, and the Traveler were headed in the same direction as a large assortment of tuxedo-clad employees who had suddenly become armed with Colt .45 M-1911's! And, when both parties got to the third floor, the first party suddenly dove to the hallway floor to avoid the stream of bullets suddenly hitting all the fluorescent lights above them.

"Deadshot to Mad Hatter. Where the blazes are you?"

"Coming into range, now. I am-."

* * * * *

The rest of the Mad Hatter's transmission was cut off by a blast of static.

"Deadshot to Hatter. Say again?"

The only response was still more static. So, to stall for time, Deadshot fired a second round of bullets over the heads of Thorne's gunmen. While, at the same time, he radioed his accomplice.

"Deadshot to Firebug. Can you get him on your unit?"

"That's a big negatory, good buddy!" replied Robin: "He's fast asleep, right now. Come back!"

* * * * *

**SOMEWHERE IN THE PENTAGON  
(TWO YEARS EARLIER)  
**  
Slade Wilson began the slide show.

"First up? Sergeant Major Adam Fors. U.S. Army Rangers (retired). A Vietnam War veteran who led more lurp team missions, behind enemy lines, than anyone else in the 75th Regiment. Next?"

There was a brief click.

"Corporal Floyd Lawton (USMC). A scout-sniper with distinguished service, in both Grenada and Panama, before going MIA during the Persian Gulf War. Next?"

Another click.

"Petty Officer First Class Garfield Lynns. Another Gulf War veteran, although he served with the U.S. Navy SEALS as a demolitions expert. That is; till he was given a Section 8. . .for pyromania. Next?"

Yet another click.

"Special Agent Frederick Venable. Born and raised in Vegas, where his parents (song-and-dance celebrity impersonators) taught him everything they knew about vocal mimicry and quick-change artistry. Following his graduation from college (which he attended on the ROTC plan), he was recruited and trained, by Army CID, to be an undercover investigator. A pretty good one, too, by all accounts. That is; till he disappeared in the middle of a sting operation against some gun-running National Guardsmen. Taking the bait money with him!"

"Last, but not least?"

One final click.

"Professor Jervis Tetch; suma cum laudegraduate of MIT with doctorates in cybernetics, neurological biology, and behavioral psychology. Rumored to be currently working for DARPA on a project involving paralyzed veterans. . .and pet monkeys."

He turned to Amanda Waller.

"Any questions?"

She stared at him with undisguised incredulity.

"This?! This is the team you want to take into Gotham?"

He nodded: "Rest assured, Sergeant Major Fors and I can whip them into shape in no time."

* * * * *  
"That's not what I'm worried about," retorted Waller: "I'm worried about an instigated gang war getting out of hand!"

"A calculated risk, Madam Director," Wilson replied: "Predators are only attracted to genuinely violent conflict. And, the hotter the time of year, the better!"

Waller shook her head, dubiously.

"I hope, for both our sakes, that you're right."

* * * * *

**PARADISE CASINO,  
GOTHAM CITY  
(2 YEARS LATER)  
**  
Firebug had been dragging the heavy burlap sack, to the broken open window, when they arrived.

The Dynamic Duo (after temporarily scrambling the radio transmissions of the perpetrators) had activated the hang-glider mode of their capes by pressing a certain button on each of their utility belts. As a result of which, the latter flexed outward like batwings! And, during their descent from the roof of the neighboring office building, Robin could not resist using his acrobatic expertise to pull ahead of Batman. Thereby being the first to spot Firebug. . .

. . .and plow into him feet-first.

When Batman landed, seconds later, he was just about to reprimand the Teen Wonder, when Deadshot started asking for his accomplice over Firebug's wireless transceiver headset. Prompting Robin to reply using his now-obsolescent knowledge of CB radio slang!

"Who is this?" Deadshot subsequently demanded.

Now, it was the Dark Knight's turn.

"I'm Batman," he replied: "And, you're under arrest."

"I believe I must beg to differ with you, Batman," said a new voice over the radio.

If the Dark Knight was startled, he did not show it.

"The Mad Hatter, I presume?"

"Correct. Now, please be just as intelligent, and let my associates go. Money and all!"

"I'm afraid that's out of the question."

"Then, you leave me no choice. You shall have to answer. . .to Alice."

Whereupon, the Dynamic Duo were momentarily deafened by the sound of an arriving helicopter. One they had only been half-conscious of approaching Rupert Thorne's night club, fifteen minutes earlier. In addition, they were momentarily blinded by the tornado of paperwork that suddenly engulfed them. Consequently, they were totally un-prepared for what suddenly plowed into them, and knocked them to the floor, like a defensive tackle on steroids.

Namely, Alice. A chimpanzee wearing a frilly blue-and-white dress and a blonde wig!

**tbc**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5.  
**  
When most people hear the word "_chimpanzee_," they almost automatically think of Cheetah. The cute and cuddly primate companion in all of Johnny Weismuller's "_Tarzan_" films. But, the frightening truth is that most chimps (especially the males) can grow to the size of an adult gorilla. And, display twice the ferocity!

Such was the case with Alice: a she-chimp in Victorian drag.

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Robin: "Jay Leno was right. People should _never_ dress up their pets."

"This is no time for levity," admonished the Dark Knight: "Stay down, while I get up. Then, while I distract her, you throw one of your Taser-angs."

"You really think that will work?"

Batman shrugged: "Nothing ventured/nothing gained."

"The motto of every bankrupt member of Gamblers' Anonymous," muttered the Teen Wonder.

Yet, despite this tension-relieving banter (_or, perhaps, because of it_), the Dynamic Duo carried out their plan to the letter. Unfortunately, Robin's doubts proved well-founded. Voltage that would have instantly rendered unconscious two human males, of the same size and weight, merely angered Alice! Thereby compelling Batman to somersault out of her path as she sprang forward. Eagerly trying to catch him. . .

. . .and tear him limb from limb.

Meanwhile, on the stairway leading up to Rupert Thorne's office, Jean-Luc Picard and company were trying to make their way past Thorne's in-house security reserves. Unfortunately, the latter were being kept pinned down.

"Captain," whispered Will Riker: "I highly recommend that we discretely employ our phasers. Minimum stun!"

"Agreed, Number One."

Five seconds later, every burly gunman in a tuxedo, who had been half-standing/half-kneeling in front of them, was enveloped in a bluish-white light. Following which, they collapsed like the proverbial sacks of wet manure! That, in turn, led to Picard yelling out the phrase he had been rehearsing most of that day.

"Federal agents! Whoever you are, you're under arrest. Lay down your firearm, and come out into the hallway, slowly. Hands clasped behind your head!"

"Clasp this!" came the shouted rejoinder.

A hail of nine-millimeter bullets hit the ceiling above Picard. Leading to a shower of plaster upon his bald head.

Meanwhile, the Dynamic Duo was having their own problems. With Alice's attention still focused on Batman, Robin had tried another method for subduing her. Jumping on her back, and placing his arms around her neck in a sleeper hold! Unfortunately, for him, the thickness of her neck rendered that just as ineffective as the Taser-ang. As a result,. . .

. . .Alice judo-tossed him off her back and on to the flat of his!

She then began moving in for the kill. Yet, just as Batman was about to employ drastic measures (namely; miniature tear gas grenades), he heard a two-way earwig crackle to life, once more.

"Mad Hatter to Alice. Mad Hatter to Alice. Cease and desist. Just grab the money and prepare for evacuation. You, too, Deadshot! Black Spider is en route. Over!"

Two seconds later, a sky crane helicopter (with a triangular arrangement of segmented landing gear) came into hovering position just above the night club roof. Whereupon, a remote-controlled winch began lowering a cable. A cable that Alice immediately jumped on to. The cash-filled burlap sack proving no heavier for her than a paper bag full of feathers!

Yet, even as Batman went over to rouse Robin (so they could both run over to the broken window and shimmy up after the sinister simian), Deadshot came running through. Stopping just long enough to aim his mini-U** at the Dark Knight.

"Stay right where you are, Batman. Your 'bring-them-in-alive' approach might be over-idealistic. But, we share the same goals here. Bringing down Thorne! So, I won't kill you just now. But, I can't promise that attitude will hold if you get in our way a second time."

He then turned and sprinted for the broken window. Jumping on to the dangling cable even as he shouted:

"Mean Berets rule! ! !"

* * * * *

**MEANWHILE, OVER IN BLUDHAVEN. . .**

Fortunato Maroni had been out of town on business when the Joker had killed off all the controlled organized crime in Bludhaven. Thereby giving new meaning to the English translation of his birth-name; "Lucky." Yet, there was no disputing the fact that his luck had run out when Batman teamed up with African-American District Attorney Harvey Dent to put Maroni behind bars. Indeed, it was said that the last gasp of his lucky streak had been the opportunity to scar Dent with acid. Turning one half of the man's face the same shade of red as raw beef. And, the other half Caucasian-white!

In any event, it was now Carmine Falcone (Maroni's former top lieutenant) who ran organized crime in Gotham City. With some token assistance, of course, from Maroni's son, Salvatore. In fact, it was the latter who was now awaiting certain crates of merchandise to be off-loaded from a certain Russian freighter. In exchange for the other merchandise now sitting in the trailer of the eighteen-wheeler belonging to the "_Roman 'Round Trucking Company_."

"Hey! Ivanov!" he shouted: "What's the hold-up? I got a delivery to make."

Fyodor Ivanov slowly came forward; hands buried deep in his wind-breaker's pockets. And, with his two ever-present bodyguards flanking him. One behind either shoulder.

"Please to forgive me, tovarisch. But, I think it is time to. . .renegotiate terms of contract."

Salvatore said nothing for ten seconds.

"Define '_renegotiate_,'" he finally replied.

The Russian mobster smiled.

"We take your h*** while keeping our guns."

Now, it was Salvatore's turn to smile.

"That would be highly inadvisable on your part."

"Oh, really!" Ivanov exclaimed, arching his eyebrows, sarcastically: "And, who is to be stopping me?"

"I be," replied Deathstroke.

Whereupon, a katana went through both of the Russian bodyguards' necks.

**tbc**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6.**

**Written by Carycomic!**

**BLUDHAVEN, NEW JERSEY**

**(JUNE 27, 2001)**

Fyodor Ivanov blanched as he watched his two bodyguards- -former Spetsnaz commandos, both- -drop to the ground. The blood gushing from their headless necks like crimson oil! Consequently, he could only stare in open-mouthed shock as Deathstroke then spun about. Launching half a dozen cruciform shurikens in the direction of the other Russian mobsters. Every single one of which. . . embedded itself squarely into the forehead over the bridge of its target's nose.

The stunned reaction (or, rather, inaction) on the part of Ivanov's surviving henchman allowed Deathstroke more than enough time to crouch down; pick up one of the dead bodyguard's Belgian-made PPSh replicas; spring back up; and, then, open fire.* As a result?

A total of fifteen men (not including Ivanov) were dead. Killed in less time than it takes to tell.

Deathstroke glared at the latter and remarked, "Looks like you'll have to finish transferring the cargo to our truck all by yourself."

The would-be double-crosser nodded in agreement with such fearful swiftness, Sal Maroni was half-worried he might give himself whiplash! His amusement at this would have been short-lived, however, if he had known that was not the only one who had witnessed this brief altercation.

Atop a nearby crane, a holographically invisible creature looked at infra-red images of the people on the wharf. The one re-sheathing his katana, in particular! That one seemed to interest his mistress.

"He moves like an Angosian," her voice telepathically declared. "And, as that primitive truck he's boarding seems to be headed for Gotham City, it might benefit my plans if you stowed away on it."

A minute later, the moving van in question was headed back north. With a translucent shape clinging, upside-down, to the underside between the mudflaps.

**MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE PARADISE CASINO. . .**

"He alright?" asked the short, bearded police detective of the paramedic.

The latter finished putting a bandage over the welt on Rupert Thorne's head, and then had him hold an ice pack on top of it.

"Mr. Thorne? I'm Detective Bullock. This is my partner, Detective Montoya."

He indicated the Latina woman standing next to him whose nod of greeting was suitably brusque.

"Can you tell us what, if anything, these gunmen were after?" Bullock went on.

"Look for yourself!" snapped Thorne. "They were obviously after the cash reserves in that vault. Because, as you know, I'm legally obligated to keep the same amount of paper money, on the premises, as the chips represent at the gaming tables."

"Nice try," quipped Montoya, "but, the vault where you keep your cash reserves is in the _basement_ of this building! So, why do you have an extra one, here in your office?"

"Because that's where he keeps the dirty money he launders through here on behalf of his silent partner," replied Batman. "One Sal Maroni."

The Dark Knight had been on the rooftop, for the last five minutes, talking to Alfred back at the Batcave. The faithful butler had been asked if he had been keeping track of the sky crane's flight path via the orbital tracking system disguised as Wayne Enterprises' satellite-TV network!

"Affirmative, sir. The aircraft in question headed due northwest toward the Knickerbocker National Forest. That is; till it vanished from the radar screen, altogether!"

"Not your fault. Considering all the paramilitary ordnance this group had, a radar-jamming device aboard their chopper doesn't come as any greater surprise. Batman, out!"

At the bottom of the rooftop access stairway, he met Robin.

'Your hunch was right. The only casino employee unaccounted for is a security guard named 'Ian Mueller.' "

Batman half-smiled: "Cute!"

Robin tilted his head in puzzlement: "Come again?"

" _'Muellerian_' is the adjective used by zoologists to describe a form of protective mimicry that goes beyond just physical similarity. For instance; it's now known that viceroy butterflies can be just as unpalatable to birds as monarch butterflies!"

"So, what are you saying?" countered the Teen Wonder. "That the Mean Berets' inside man was actually some kind of. . .giant killer moth?"

"Nope! Just an accomplished master of disguise. Which should help us narrow down our list of suspects, considerably."

A moment later, they walked back into Thorne's office, where they caught the first round of the former's questioning. Which, in turn, prompted Thorne to give forth with a very predictable response.

"Never heard of the guy."

"Strange!" replied the Dark Knight (once again wearing that unnerving half-smile). "He runs- -among other things- -the sanitation service that picks up your casino's garbage, once a week. A very clever way of smuggling the illicit profits, from your other businesses, _into_ the casino, I must admit."

Now, it was Thorne's turn to smirk. "If you could prove that accusation, we both know I wouldn't still be sitting, here."

"Perhaps we could be of some help, in that regard," a new voice chimed in.

The Dynamic Duo were slightly faster, in spinning about, than Montoya and Bullock. But, all four of them were no less puzzled than Thorne, himself, in seeing a quintet of men in black suits come walking into the office. A quintet evidently led by a bald Caucasian who identified himself as. . .

"Special Agent Dixon Hill, FBI."

"Black Spider to Veteran. Black Spider to Veteran. Do you copy? Over."

"Veteran to Black Spider. Copy you. Over."

"Black Spider to Veteran. We have passed Tower One. ETA, ninety seconds. Over."

"Roger, that. Rolling camo back, now. Veteran, over and out."

Half a minute later, Lieutenant Garber began the vertical descent of the painted-black, spidery-looking sky crane towards a large, red-lit circle on the ground. When that had been accomplished, a deafening sound arose as a series of massively tall poles began to slide forward along two parallel lines of metallic track. A three inch-wide, two inch-deep slit in each one. When those poles finally ceased moving, the camouflage nets at the top of them were once more in place.

A few moments later, Sergeant Major Fors was looking at the returnees.

"How'd it go?"

"There was some interference from the Caped Crusaders," replied Deadshot, ". . .as anticipated. But, we got away with the money. And even Alice's Kevlar vest managed to protect her from getting tazed! How'd things go in Bludhaven?"

"The Russkies tried a double-cross. Deathstroke showed 'em the error of their ways, though."

"Good!" snapped Garber. "The sooner we get this b.s. over with, the sooner we can achieve our main objective."

"Yes, sir," saluted Fors. "The buyers are waiting for us in the cafeteria."

"Alice!" exclaimed the Mad Hatter. "Come."

The mind-controlled chimp, still toting the sack full of money, followed her master to the designated rendezvous. There, seated at one of the many dining tables, was a trio of Southwest Asians. One of them taller than the other two. . .and sporting a gold turban.

"Lt. Garber? Dr. Tetch?" intoned the sergeant major. "Meet Khan Noonein Singh."

**tbc**


	7. Chapter 7

_**Foreword:**__ sorry for the three-month delay, guys. But, that's partly because I would have felt awfully exploitative, posting a new chapter any sooner after Leonard Nimoy's death. So, naturally, the rest of this story will be dedicated to him. May the rest of his family live as long and prosperously as he did._

**Chapter 7.**

**LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA**

**(FOUR YEARS EARLIER)**

"John Henry Irons?"

The tall African-American man in question instantly woke up at hearing his name whispered so harshly in his right ear. But, even as he sprang out of bed and landed in a crouch, he could see nothing in the darkness. So, he carefully reached out his right hand towards the lamp on the night stand to the left of his bed.

"I would prefer it if you left that light off," the mysterious whisperer now spoke again.

"Who are you?" demanded the ex-weapons designer. "Show yourself!"

"In Gotham City," replied the Dark Knight: ". . .I'm called the Batman. And, I understand you're locally known, out here, as Steel."

Irons stood up to his full height: "How'd you know that?"

"Last month, the so-called _'freeze ray'_ developed by one Victor Fries was removed from GCPD custody by a man who represented himself as being an ATF agent.* He claimed he was taking it away for _'safe and orderly'_ disposal at their leading East Coast facility for such. But, I checked. And, the freeze ray never arrived there! Nor does the ATF have any record of an agent by the name of. . .Nathaniel Burke."

Irons clenched both of his hands into fists. Even though he was now dead, Burke's profiteering legacy was still finding a way to haunt him!

"If you know about me," he replied: ". . .then you know what happened to him."

"Yes. But, I still don't know what happened to the freeze ray (which, as I'm sure you're already aware, was really just a dispenser of laser-guided liquid oxygen)! And, as you have more contacts out here than I do, I would deeply appreciate it if you could let me know if you hear anything from them about that."

"Assuming I do," said Irons: ". . .how do I get word to you?"

"Have your colleague, Ms. Sparks, make a donation to the Wayne Foundation in the amount of $100.01. I'll then contact you on this disposable cell phone."

The Batman handed over relatively small rectangular object that resembled a cross between a transistor radio and a juvenile walkie-talkie. Following which, the former left just as soundlessly as he had arrived! Two weeks after that, the Dark Knight was informed about a couple dozen _'cryo-static guns'_ that had been reverse-engineered from the missing prototype.

Reverse-engineered on the orders of- -and subsequently shipped westward to- -one Peter B. Keyes; U.S. Air Force Intelligence.

**LANGLEY, VIRGINIA **

**LABOR DAY, 1997**

**(11:59 P.M./EDT)**

Like a lot of other first-generation CIA agents, Larry Lance had served in World War II as a spy/commando for the OSS (Office of Strategic Services). But, after he was laid off by the Company during the Carter Presidency, he used his skills to become a private detective in Midwestern Star City. There, he met and eventually married (after arranging for her defection from the Soviet Union) Lorelei Circe. A metahuman KGB agent code-named _'Siren'_! And the daughter they brought into the world ultimately grew up to follow in both her parents' covert footsteps. . .

. . .as Carolyn Lance (code-name: _'Black Canary'_).

But, that chain of reflective thought was broken the moment Carolyn's visitor announced himself.

"Do you have the file?"

She nodded; handing over the flash drive in her right hand. Whereupon, the Dark Knight inserted it into a bat-shaped palm pilot in his left hand. What unscrambled itself on the small glass screen before him almost made his eyebrows arch in total surprise.

"They seriously thought they could take this thing alive? ? ?"

"So Keyes convinced them," Carolyn whispered in reply.

"If I wanted to get Lt. Harrigan's take on what happened, where would I find him?"

Even in the near-total darkness of the area of the parking garage where they were meeting, Batman could see her frown.

"UCLA Medical Center. The radioactive dust they used as part of the slaughterhouse trap wasn't completely water-logged by the sprinkler system."

**GOTHAM CITY (48 HOURS LATER) **

"An alien headhunter, Master Bruce?!" exclaimed Alfred with understandable incredulity.

The Batman nodded as he finished uploading the contents of the flash drive to the Batcave's main frame computer.

"The Cold War has been over for seven years," he added. "And, yet, Uncle Sam seems intent on starting a whole new arms race. In fact, you want to know what I find most troubling about _'Project: Wild Hunt'_, Alfred? The fact that, if A-2 had succeeded in capturing this _'Predator'_, he would have been confined at the same facility that mass produced those duplicate cryo-guns. Namely; Lexcorp of Metropolis!"

**tbc**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8.  
**

**EXCERPTS FROM THE DIARY OF HENRY JEKYLL, M.D.**

**"14 July, 1895."  
**  
"I think I might finally have found a cure for my condition! There's a chap named Abednego Danner who, during his youth, served as chief medical officer aboard that extraordinary submersible ship called _'the Nautilus'._ And, when not engaged in his regular duties, he spent his spare time trying to find a way to biochemically augment the natural strength and stamina of the human body. In order to better adapt people for someday living in undersea colonies at heavy-pressure depths!"

"Well, I finally managed to track him down with the help of that consulting detective from Baker Street. The one whose exploits keep getting written up in _THE STRAND_. And, according to him, Herr Danner is now living and working in some gold-mining town in the American state of Colorado!"

"I'm going to wire him straight away, and tell him of. . . my problem."

* * * * *

**"16 July, 1895."**

"I finally heard back from him. And, he's agreed! Danner is going to mail me the formula for his wonder drug! !"

* * * * *

**"31 July, 1895."**

"It's finally arrived! And, enclosed with the formula (as promised) was a precise set of instructions on how to mix up a proper batch of it. I shall set to work, straight away."

* * * * *

**"2 August, 1895."**

"It worked! ! No longer shall I be _'Edward Hyde, homicidal dwarf'_. Nor shall I ever again be my old self. From now on, Henry Jekyll shall be as gigantic of body as he is of mind!"

* * * * *

**THE PENTAGON,  
WASHINGTON, D.C.  
(APRIL 29, 1968)  
**  
Major Wade Eiling made the introductions.

"Larry Lance? Slade Wilson."

The veteran CIA agent and the shave-tail Green Beret shook hands before sitting down.

"I'll get right to the point," said Eiling: "You two are going into Russia to get back something that was stolen from Uncle Sam nearly thirty years ago. It's called _'the Danner Formula'_. And the Kremlin is trying to do for its North Vietnamese comrades what they did for their own army during World War II. Albeit, a little more successfully than that last time."

"Begging your pardon, sir," said Wilson: "But, I'm afraid you've lost me."

Eiling half-smiled and nodded in understanding. Whereupon, he lifted a remote control and pressed two buttons. The first one dimming the lights in the soundproofed office. The second one opening a secret panel that had, up until that moment, hidden a three-tier steel shelf. With a TV set on the top tier, and a videotape player on the bottom.

"What you're about to see is not some old Republic movie serial transferred to videotape. It was made from a Nazi propaganda film captured at the end of WWII."

Five minutes later, both men were slack-jawed with astonishment as they witnessed a fair-haired young man, in a gray Wehrmacht uniform, fighting with a much older man wearing a Soviet Red Army uniform. Hand-to-hand-fighting, at that. Knock-down, drag-out, and no-holds-barred boxing and wrestling. With each man landing punches on the other that should have had one of them lying on the ground, twitching in their death throes, long before this!

In the end, however, it was the older man who proved victorious. Clamping both his hands around the younger man's neck, and lifting the latter off the ground as the former strangled him to death, while simultaneously shaking him like a terrier shaking a dead rat.

Eiling shut off the videotape and re-brightened the lights.

"As far as we can piece it together, the Danner Formula was split in half (by the widow of Dr. Danner, himself) after World War I. With one half going to Walter Reed Hospital. And the other half to the League of Nations Health Organization! Unfortunately, for us, both halves wound being stolen by Nazi spies, who subsequently shared that knowledge with the Soviets. Prior to that double-crossing invasion of Russia, of course!"

"And each side used that formula to develop. . .the men in that film?" Wilson asked nervously.

Eiling nodded: "Hauptmann Ubermensch and Comrade Stalnoivolk, respectively. Fortunately, for us, neither the Ratzis nor the Commies ever had the chance to develop any more such men. After killing Ubermensch (whose real job had been to delay Stalnoivolk long enough for Hitler to kill himself), Stalnoivolk's next big mission was to kill the Emperor of Japan! But, he only made it as far as Hiroshima. . .the day the first A-bomb was dropped."

"But, now the Kremlin is at it, again," said Lance: "They're going to try to. . .Dannerize the North Vietnamese Army?"

"Not if you two can help it," replied the major.

* * * * *

**GARDNER FOX PARKWAY  
(JUNE 27, 2001)  
**  
The moving van had just passed the half-way point, between Gotham City and Bludhaven, when Sal Maroni's cellphone rang. Too practical to take his his eyes off the road, he put the cellphone in the drop-down coffee cup holder and hit the speaker button.

"Maroni!"

"It is me."

Sal and Deathstroke looked at each other. The former's facial expression was one of total disbelief. While the latter- -who was riding in the shotgun seat- -had his face hidden behind a hockey mask that had been painted to resemble an orange half-moon. Yet, even Deathstroke would have to admit (if only mentally) that he had not anticipated hearing from Piotr Chekhov, himself. To get a personal phone call from the head of the Russian Mob's largest East Coast apparat was like expecting a Christmas card to be personally hand-delivered by the Postmaster-General of the United States!

Yet, nowhere near as pleasant.

"Pete! Been a while. What can I do you for?"

"Fyodor told me what was done to his men, Salvatore. That was rather. . .excessive of your tovarisch. Don't you think? A case of punishment going above and beyond fitness of crime."

"I wanted to make sure the rest of your people got the message loud and clear, Chekhov," replied Deathstroke: "Don't frig with the Maronis!"

"Fyodor's actions were of his own greedy volition," countered the Russian: "And, he has been dealt with, accordingly."

A loud pistol shot was the next sound to be heard over the phone.

"But, the massacre of the men he had with him?" Chekhov resumed. "Their needless deaths will be avenged. That is promise!"

"By you and what army?" Sal demanded (in a shamelessly mocking tone).

As if in response, the van's cab suddenly developed twin gashes in its metallic roof.

**tbc**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9.**

**Story by Carycomic  
**

**NIMBUS III  
(DEC. 11, 2378)  
**  
The Pakled ship's captain took another swig of his Romulan ale before explaining how he came by the additional "_item"_.

"We find derelict Saurian freighter on barren planetoid near Dark Horse Nebula. And, all Saurians inside are dead. So, immediately, me start thinking: _'We gonna get free brandy!'_ But, co-pilot? He start wondering what killed Saurians. Because, some look like burned to death by acid. Others look like shot in back with phaser, at point blank range! Well, he find out alright. Hard way!"

"It was weird aliens. Look like really big bugs with spikey tails! First one kill co-pilot. And, me thinking rest gonna get me. But then, suddenly, even bigger alien show up. . .and he cut off all their heads with little flying shield! All but first one, that is. That one sneak up behind him and use spikey tail like spear! So, me use Klingon disruptor and kill first big bug. Then, me drag really bigger alien aboard ship and bring him here to fix wound. Because, me no want to be late bringing you what Daimon Gaila pay me to bring you!"

Sela, wearing the rattiest hooded cloak she could find, looked up from the cantina table top and glared at her _"guest"_.

"A wise decision on your part, Pakled. Where is this _'really bigger alien'_ right now?"

"You come with me. Me show you."

* * * * *  
**GARDNER FOX PARKWAY  
(JUNE 27, 2001)**

Long-time residents, and other veteran commuters of the tri-state area, knew that the fastest way to catch the GFP, from Metropolis, was to take I-84 South from the Siegel Boulevard on-ramp near Fort Schuster State Park. And, while she was definitely not one of the former, Barbara Clarke was most certainly one of the latter. At least, when it came to playing hooky, from boarding school, on the back of a street-racing motorcycle!

That was how she had learned to wear a full safety helmet, complete with lift-up visor. . .and a two-way radio tuned to the local police band. That, in turn, is how she came to hear the call for assistance as she now weaved her Suzuki GSX 1100 through the traffic around her.

* * * * *

"All units! All units! Respond to 10-34 in progress at site of 10-53, near GFP Mile Marker 1. Eyewitnesses reporting use of bladed hand weapons by costumed individuals. Over!"

That was all Barbara needed to hear. She immediately increased speed until a gradually increasing back log of traffic forced her to slow down to a crawl. And, when she saw that the overturned vehicle was a "Roman 'Round" moving van, she instantly switched to a more encrypted frequency.

"Cycle Queen to Dark Knight. Cycle Queen to Dark Knight. Batman, please acknowledge! Over!"

There was one more second of static before she finally got a reply.

"Batman here. What's up, Batgirl?"

"There's some kind of weird duel going on along the GFP, near the intersection of Boltinoff and Frontage. Possibly a hijacking of one of Thorne's contraband shipments! Can't investigate; I only have civvies. Over!"

"Understood. Dark Knight en route. Over and out!"

Back at the King O' Clubs, Batman looked at Robin, who had been listening to Barbara's message, simultaneously. Consequently, the Teen Wonder asked a semi-rhetorical question.

"To the Vulcans?"

"To the Vulcans!" replied his mentor.

Whereupon, the Dynamic Duo broke off their just-begun discussion with Special Agent Dixon Hill and ran towards the hole in the street-facing wall of Rupert Thorne's office. . .and jumped through it!

"Agent Hill" and the other four men in black ran toward that hole and looked through it. To their amazement, they saw the Dynamic Duo gliding to a landing at the office building next door. Disappearing into the shadows near its underground parking garage. The disappearance did not last long, however. As less than ninety seconds afterward, two midnight-black motorcycles came roaring out of that garage!

"Fascinating," said Mr. Spock: "Apparently, they were not referring to the anomalous presence of my people here on Earth, this early in the 21st century."

The elderly diplomat was correct. Batman and Robin were now riding toward the indicated confrontation aboard custom-restored (and painted-black) Bimota Lasers equipped with Kawasaki Vulcan 500 R engines.

* * * * *

**GARDNER FOX PARKWAY  
(10 MINUTES EARLIER)**

The van had been approaching Exit 1, on the Gotham County side of the parkway, when the Predator had been given his next order.

"These two seem to have perpetrated a major larceny," Sela remarked, telepathically. "Maybe their deaths will draw out my target. Kill them!"

Whereupon, the mind-controlled headhunter extended a pair of metallic claws from its right-hand gauntlet. Using them to peel off the roof of the van's cab like the lid from a can of sardines!

"What the frig. . .?!" Sal Maroni began to exclaim.

"Pull over to the side of the road!" ordered Deathstroke: "Now! !"

But, when Sal did not react as swiftly as he would have liked, the masked mercenary took matters into his own hands. Quickly leaning over to his left and seizing control of the steering wheel! As a result, the van veered to the right, crashing through the guard rail and on to the grassy verge of Frontage Road. In the process, it turned over on its right side before ultimately sliding to a stop. Yet, moments before that had happened, Deathstroke had managed to open the driver's side door of the van and launch himself outward. Landing flat on his back, judoka-style, in order to shield the mobster on top of him!

When they both regained their feet, Deathstroke ordered Sal to run off and call for help. The mobster instinctively began to protest, but changed his mind when Deathstroke withdrew his katana.

"Whup his butt, dude," was all he said before running off toward the lights of a nearby gas station.

* * * * *

Back at the King O' Clubs, the Traveler took his four allies aside in order to urgently whisper something to them.

"Captain! The Yautja has arrived in Gotham City. I have the precise co-ordinates from monitoring the local telecommunications, and I can make the police think we left by normal means. But, we must leave here, now!"

Jean-Luc Picard nodded, adding, "Ready your phasers. Set to maximum stun!"

Sure enough, no one noticed the departure of the five "_FBI agents_". Nor did anyone notice their sudden materialization, two seconds later, at the intersection of Boltinoff Avenue and Frontage Road. Conversely, the time-traveling quintet were just in time to hear Deathstroke proclaim:

"Alright, you ugly other-worlder. Let's dance!"

**tbc  
**

**Mini-glossary  
**  
**10-34:** in real life, the NYPD radio code for "assault" (usually followed by specification of type).

**10-53:** in real life, the NYPD radio code for "overturned vehicle."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10. **

**CENTRAL AMERICA (1930)**

**Excerpts From The Journal of Hugo Danner.**

_"We've done it! We finally reached the Valley of the Vanished. . .and the ruins of the temple of the Demon Manhunter."_

_"Dr. Hardin is ecstatic, as he is now more confident than ever that he is one step closer to proving his controversial theories. But, I am apprehensive. For the long-lost cache of Mayan gold, rumored to be here, is said to make King Tut's tomb look like a pauper's grave! And that kind of talk can fuel all kinds of unscrupulous ambition. Indeed, all during the trek through the jungle, I have felt like someone (or some _thing_) has had us under intense scrutiny. That is why I've confided in Dr. Hardin. Not only about my concerns that we might have been followed, here. But, also. . ."_

_". . .about my superhuman capabilities."_

_"He listened to the story of my life. And, after the inevitable initial reaction of open-mouthed amazement, to a demonstration of my strength, he became most empathetic. Telling me he knew all too well what it felt like to be scorned for his beliefs (the wide-spread publication of which is one of the reasons I had joined his expedition in the first place)!"_

_" 'Mankind has developed a vast array of deadly weapons over the last seventy years,' he told me. 'America, especially! And, at the rate the rest of the world is going, in playing catch-up, I grow increasingly certain that the Great War will _not_ turn out to be the first and last such military conflict. Hence, my secondary reason for seeking out this valley.' "_

_" 'I plan to make it the site of a colony for those who feel as I do. People who think the world is racing toward self-destruction. And who, therefore, want to have a new race of people ready and waiting, in the proverbial wings, to build a new and better world in its place.' "_

_"He then added that- -by virtue of what I had just told and shown him- -I would make a perfect progenitor for such a race." _

**GOTHAM CITY **

**(06/29/2001)**

To Wesley Crusher, it was like watching a flesh-and-blood version of some primitive computer video game.

The Predator had made the first move. Lunging toward the individual with the samurai sword with its massive right arm extended. And with the claw-like blades on its wrist seeking to behead that individual with a right-to-left motion. But, the latter managed to duck underneath that swing! Furthermore, he was able to immediately block a nearly similar move, by the Predator's left arm, before attempting to retaliate with a left side kick to the Predator's upper chest. Sending it backward just enough to permit the individual a chance to cleave its skull straight down the middle! The Predator, however, blocked the vertically downward arc of the katana's blade by crisscrossing both pairs of metal claws at the wrists. It then spun about, counter-clockwise, in a move that resulted in its left elbow collided with Deathstroke (the aforementioned individual with the katana). Sending him to the ground nearly face-first. The Predator then jumped into the air; its right left extended in a clear indication that it intended to land atop Deathstroke's head with its right foot. Thereby killing him through the fracturing of his skull!

But, Deathstroke managed to roll to his right (and, thus, out of the way) just in time. Then, he rolled back; while simultaneously using his right leg to sweep both of the Predator's legs out from under him! Consequently, the massively tall alien managed to land flat on its back. Thereby becoming vulnerable to a lunge forward by Deathstroke. A lunge that he fully intended to end with the katana impaled right through the alien's heart!

All of this occurring in less time than it takes to tell.

Yet, Jean-Luc Picard knew an opportunity when he saw one. So, he immediately ordered everyone to. . .

"Open fire. Now!"

As a result, he and Will Riker wound up hitting Deathstroke with maximum stun, while Spock, Wesley, and the Traveler did the same with the Predator. That, in turn, made Sela Yar scream in pain, as she experienced the backlash of having her mind-meld, with the alien huntsman, broken so severely.

"Quickly!" Picard ordered once more. "Everyone surround that creature so we can get him back to the runabout and get out of here."

Yet, even as the 24th century quintet ran forward, to do just that, a new wrinkle developed. This one, in the form of an armored figure that came flying out of the sky to land in between them and the Predator!

**KNICKERBOCKER NATIONAL FOREST**

**(FIVE MINUTES EARLIER)**

"Satisfied, Your Excellency?" asked Sergeant Major Fors of Khan Noonein Singh.

"With the conventional weaponry, yes," replied the Sikh. "But, I am curious as to this strange suit of armor. What is it?"

"It's a prototype robotic exoskeleton that the Soviet Union developed just before the end of the Cold War. The Russian code-name for it translates as 'Rocket Red.' And it was intended to be worn by airborne troops operating in areas that had been. . .tactically nuked."

"Interesting! Might I have a demonstration of it?"

Suddenly, klaxons began blaring all around the two men. Followed by a voice, over the PA system, clamoring:

"Red alert! Red alert! Targeted subject has been sighted in Gotham City, at GFP off-ramp near Boltinoff Avenue and Frontage Road. Code-name Deathstroke has engaged the target. Therefore, Plan B protocol is now in effect. This is not a drill. Repeat: this is not a drill!"

"You want a demo, Your Excellency?" said the sergeant major. "You got it!"

"Halt!" ordered the armored man. "Stay right where you are. These two are now prisoners of the Federal government."

"And we are Federal agents," countered the starship captain (flashing one of the FBI badges the runabout's on-board replicator had fashioned for him and the others).

"These two don't fall within your jurisdiction," replied the armored man. "Now, back off!"

"Negative!" Picard exclaimed. "FBI has overriding jurisdiction in all cases of espionage on American soil."

"Not where the TFX is concerned," insisted the armored man.

"And just what is the TFX?" persisted Picard.

"Task Force X," replied the Batman. "A covert branch of the Defense Intelligence Agency. One that I thought had been disbanded."

**tbc**


End file.
